


As the poets say

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hillary Mantel? i dont know her, M/M, friends dont let friends get martyred, historical accuracy whomst?, let my Problematic Nerds rest, robert bolt whomst?, star crossed lovers, the Reformation, thomas more cant catch a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: Thomas More gets an unexpected visit, and faces yet another terrible choice.
Relationships: Erasmus (1466-1536)/Thomas More
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	As the poets say

**Author's Note:**

> I know absolutely nada about Sebastian Castellio except that he was Erasmus' literary heir so I stuck him in here for that reason. I assume he was Mom Friend.

The letter came shortly after the terce bell. _I_ _am dying, dearest of scholars_ , Mountjoy had written. _But isn’t the first lesson the philosophers teach us, to learn how to die?_

Erasmus sat to read the rest of the letter, breath weighed down by the burden of the news.

_I am fearful for our dear More. He has evaded one accusation of treason, I doubt he can escape a second._ _They will write his name on an Act of Attainder, and then only the king can take him off the scaffold._ _I have written to him, but I have no power to command a reply._

_Your loving friend until I die, which will not be long now._

_William Blount, Baron Mountjoy._

Fears circled in his head like vultures. He saw the dew of jail fever, the shine of an axe, the glow of a coal. The worst thought was More afraid, until he imagined More too broken to fear anything at all.

_I am old and broken_ he thought. _But not broken enough for this._

“Jaap!” Erasmus called. “Pack only what we need for the journey.”

“Journey?” Sebastian had ears like a bat. “What journey?”

“London.” Erasmus was searching for his waxed over-mantle. “Only what we need, we cannot spend a moment on anything else.”

“London is six hundred miles away!”

“Five hundred. _Where_ is it?”

“Are you quite serious?”

“You have a very bad habit of asking me rhetorical questions.”

Sebastian closed the chest, just as Erasmus was about to pull another shirt out of it. “No. Basel is one thing, but London is too far. You are too old and too ill for me to let you do this.”

“If anything happens to me, you must not hesitate to finish my work. I trust you with that burden, so trust me with this!”

“You have no idea what you’re risking, you could die if you do this!”

“And More could die if I do not!”

Sebastian sighed. “We don’t know that. Stay. Wait for news. Write him a letter.”

“I know him. I know him as I know myself, a letter will not be enough, all I’ll get is a nicely written reply, a month after he’s _dead_!”

Sebastian grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him around to face him. “Why? Why him? Why risk your life running after him?”

“He’s all I have left, my friends, they’re all dead but him and Mountjoy and Mountjoy is dying-“

“But the rumours-“

“ _He is half my soul!_ ”

Sebastian’s face slackened in defeat. “Then go. But just once. If you come back, come back and stay. Don’t die at a crossroads.”

Erasmus wrapped his arm around Sebastian and hugged him. “Little mother hen.”

By noon, Freiburg was swallowed by the trees, and the road stretched both ahead and behind them. The last time Erasmus took this road they rode slowly, stopping to lie down on the banks of streams and let their horses drink. Now Erasmus dragged them on, riding faster than he dared. Exhaustion wrapped itself around his spine like thread on a spindle. Arrows of pain shot up his legs faster and faster and remained there, throbbing. He pressed his mouth shut and fought it, breathing out sharply. However bad the pain might become, it would always hurt less than doing nothing. Colet’s death had hurt more, Batt’s death had hurt more, Mountjoy’s suffering hurt more, and More’s death would hurt worst of all. He thought of Pheidippides, his death running on his own swift feet.

“Rest,” Jaap would beg.

“One more mile,” came the reply.

They made their farewells to their horses before they were out of France. Jaap wept to say goodbye to his mare, but it was better than having to bury her. Erasmus silently thanked St Christopher that neither he nor his mount had collapsed; and if he died before London, he had at least come this far. They found new mounts, and Erasmus prayed that they would not encounter thieves. With each day that passed, the pain took longer to fade once they stopped for the night. It was as if his legs were being slowly filled with lead, until he did not so much lift as push them.

God smiled, and the day of the Channel crossing was cold and bright. The harbour officials paid him very little mind, and Erasmus was not surprised. He was wearing dusty fur and crumpled wool, and nothing in his sack marked him as a scholar. The only paper he had was a prayer book, and some Dutch notes written with coal.

Now that they were in England, there was nowhere to go but London, and Jaap gave up all protest. They reached Chelsea the fifth day after that, as even Erasmus realised the need to slow down before they collapsed on his doorstep.

The porter tried to turn them away. “My master is at prayer, he will not receive any petitions-“

The porter received a shove for his trouble, and Dame Alice came out to see what the commotion was.

“You.” She said.

“Me.”

For one moment, she seemed unsure what to do. Then she turned and walked down the gallery, calling for her husband. The walls muffled More’s answer, but a door slammed and More strode impatiently to the hall.

“Erasmus?” More leaned his hand against the wall.

Erasmus hurtled up the stairs with the speed of a man half his age. He was even dirtier than he was in Dover, but More held him as if he was new velvet. The years, the schism, the politics, the fires, the wives, had gone as if they had never been.

“I thought I would never see you again. What are you doing here?”

“Telling you to leave with me, and leave with me now. Bring nothing, not even your books, I have books enough for both of us. Bring your family if you don’t trust the king with them- the emperor must be able to afford your relatives- but _leave_. Leave for anywhere else. Leave before they kill you. Lock yourself in a monastery, wear a scratchy habit, never see me again, but _leave_.”

More smiled sadly. “What are you going to do, pull me onto a white charger and ride off with me?” He laughed, imagining a messenger trying to explain to the King of England that the former Lord Chancellor had been kidnapped by an elderly renegade humanist.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I can’t leave.”

“You can! In a monk’s habit, nobody would recognise you.”

“Bishop Fisher-“

“Very well, bring Fisher along too. If Pole can go into exile, both of you can too.”

“Fisher will not leave. Fisher would die rather than leave.”

“Fisher knows what that means! I beg you, leave theology to the theologians. Let them quarrel and die, but not you. You owe the king nothing, you’ve given him your life, he will not have your head as well. Praise him or curse him, _I don’t care_ , but take yourself out of harm’s way. Come to Freiburg with me, live with me where it’s quiet and pious and warm and _safe_.” Erasmus took a deep calming breath and said, in English, “ _Please_.”

“I’ve come too far to turn back now. And I should not want to.” More warmed Erasmus’ hand with both of his own.

“I love you,” More promised. “Beyond reason and beyond language. I love you in the light perpetual and the last silence of heaven. When the seven plagues strike and the sun turns black and the moon turns to blood I will love you still. Let the stars fall and the heavens fold and the mountains move and I will love you. I love you through the door no man can shut. I loved you in Utopia and I shall love you in Armageddon. I will love you after hunger and after thirst and after the sun, after Babylon falls and after the hour of judgement. I love you in the crowd and the water and the thunder. I love you in the clouds and the fire and the sea of glass. I love you in the lightning and the terror and the lamps. I love you in the hour of temptation…” He squeezed his hands tighter. “And the day of wrath. When time and death have ended and the mystery of God has finished I will go on loving you.”

No smile came to Erasmus’ face, only tears as he realised he had lost. More touched his cheek with a finger, and kissed his forehead.

“We’ll meet again in Utopia.”

**Author's Note:**

> The references in the monologue at the end are taken from a literal translation of the Vulgate's Book of Revelation.   
> Erasmus never visited England after 1517, but then again Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor also never met and yet here we are with not one but two movies where the two women meet. Title a reference to the Song of Achilles, because renaissance humanists.


End file.
